


bright the fire, light the flame

by Elsin



Series: Lay of the Lioness [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rigel Black Series - murkybluematter, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Identity Reveal, Magic, Rigel Black Chronicles - Freeform, Rigelverse, Secret Identity, Series: The Song of the Lioness, The Futile Facade, The Pureblood Pretense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 03:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsin/pseuds/Elsin
Summary: Bright flame, light fire--Around Ysandir burn higher.Bright the fire, light the flame--Burn Ysandir in Mithros' name.Or: if a girl and a boy go to Persopolis, can they help but be called to the Black City?





	bright the fire, light the flame

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dalia and mercury for betaing this.

Two days before they were to leave for the final task, Rigel received a package. It had no sender listed. She opened it cautiously, in her lab; she didn’t dare open it at the table. She cast spell after spell at it, trying to figure out what it might be, what it might do, to tell if it was nefarious—but it responded to nothing she did.

When she opened the package, she found it contained a tarnished silver ring set with a large translucent crystal. She couldn’t place it, which was more than a little troubling, for Rigel had a decent knowledge of stones.

Neither Draco nor Pansy knew anything about the ring, nor what its stone might be. Rigel ended up slipping it into her potions bag, into a small inner pocket, and put her attention elsewhere.

* * *

The final task, as it transpired, would not take place at Hogwarts. It would not take place in the UK at all. Rather, it was slated to take place far to the south, in a city called Persopolis in the middle of the Arabian Desert. The city itself was a magical enclave which had stood for centuries untold, inhabited by both magicals and muggles. Its people were called the Bazhir.

All of the champions, even those who had not made it to the final rounds, were invited. Because the Malfoys were so very important, Draco, too, would be coming; with them, they were bringing Pansy. Other than that, Rigel realized that she would be quite alone in the desert, for she hadn’t told her family that they could come see her. Maybe that was part of the point.

At the gates of the city they were welcomed by the city’s governor, Ali Mukhtab. Looking around her, Rigel thought that there were more adults and hangers-on in their party than there were people of competition age. She had sent word to Krait to tell him that he’d have to do without her potions for the next two weeks—they were to be put up in the city for two weeks in total. The final task would take place on the eleventh day.

“Listen to me,” Riddle had said to all the champions and former-champions, gathered in a classroom in Hogwarts prior to their departure. Draco, for whatever reason, had been lurking in the back. “There is tale,” Riddle had said, “that they tell in Persopolis: a tale of a city carved of black stone, empty of all life. They say it calls to their youths, the more powerful the better, and that it consumes them. This is—unlikely. Far more probable is that their youths simply depart for other cities with better prospects. But make no mistake—the Black City holds a great evil. Do not go there, unless you mean to risk your very souls.” His eyes had met Rigel’s, then flicked to the back; she’d seen him looking sternly at Draco. “That is all,” he’d said, and then he’d let them go. Rigel still didn’t know what to make of the incident.

On the night after their arrival, there was a great feast held in the castle. Rigel was the center of attention, of course, along with Hermione and Fleur, who were the other two finalists. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair—she really hated all the pageantry here, and she could do nothing about it—and turned, finding herself face-to-face with Ali Mukhtab.

“How do you find it here?” the governor asked her. She shrugged.

“I imagine I’d like it better if I wasn’t the focal point,” she said honestly. “Still, it’s fascinating. I’ve never left Great Britain before.” She would have, had she gone to AIM as she’d been meant to. “And I’m always interested in places that aren’t as—separated—as Britain is.”

“Ah, yes,” said the governor. “You do not mingle with muggles at home, so I imagine this might be strange for you.”

“A bit, yes,” said Rigel. “Though not quite as strange as how dry the air is.”

“I have heard that Britain is rather damper than our home,” he said dryly. “This is your first desert, yes? What do you think of the land? It, at least, will not pay you any mind.”

Having been Portkeyed directly into the city, Rigel had not had the opportunity to stand in the open expanse of the desert, and she told Mukhtab so. “But I looked off the wall,” she said; they’d been given a tour of the city after their arrival. “Out over the sand. It’s beautiful, in a way I’ve never seen at home.”

“Beautiful, yes,” said Mukhtab with a smile, “but dangerous, too. Never forget that: the desert is a harsh mistress, and it can overwhelm even the greatest of wizards.” He gave her a look that was somehow sharp even through his half-lidded eyes, and she nodded.

“I’ll remember.” There was silence for a moment, as all around them the party continued. “You know,” she added thoughtfully, feeling inexplicably emboldened, “Riddle told us a tale before we came here, of a black city on the horizon.”

“Did he indeed,” said Mukhtab. “How curious. If you can escape, and can gather your friends, there is something you might be interested in seeing.”

Rigel nodded to him, then slipped away. Draco and Pansy were easy to collect, and in the end she decided to send Pansy back to collect Hermione rather than go herself and risk being caught up again. When the four of them had gathered, they left through the door that the governor had pointed out to Rigel earlier. He was waiting for them on the other side.

“Come,” he said, and led the way to a wooden door with a brass doorknob. He pulled out a matching key, unlocked it, and showed them inside. “This,” he said, “is the Sunset Room.”

The Sunset Room was quite unlike anywhere else in the castle. Its walls were covered in colorful mosaics depicting terrible scenes; there was farming, and fire, and monsters and blood. Rigel tore her attention from them to the open western wall, where the light of the setting sun shone into their eyes.

“Look into the sun,” said Ali Mukhtab, “and you will see the Black City.”

Rigel saw it—a tiny speck against the blaze on the horizon—and turned away as her eyes began to sting.

“Riddle said it calls your children,” she said. “How so?”

“The city itself does not,” said Mukhtab. “But the ones who live in it, the Nameless Ones—they do. They lived here many centuries ago, when we first came from across the sea, and we worked their fields.” He sighed, and gestured out at the desert. “All this was green and fertile, or so they say. When we learned that they were stealing our souls, we burned their fields and cities, and all this turned to dust.”

“How could you burn them?” asked Hermione. “If they were so powerful, I mean.”

“They fear fire above all else,” said Mukhtab. “We placed a barrier of fire around their city, and they cannot cross it though I know they have tried.”

Hermione kept asking questions, and Ali Mukhtab answered them to the best of his ability. Rigel was only half-listening, and she drifted over to the open wall to gaze out over the desert. Eventually it grew late, and Mukhtab sent them off to bed.

“What do you think the truth of it is?” asked Pansy, and Hermione frowned. Before she could say anything, Draco cut in.

“It’s just stories,” he said dismissively. “Stories for the Bazhir to tell their children to keep them close. There are many dangers of the desert, after all.”

Rigel looked sharply at him. She didn’t trust that tone in his voice, but she chose to say nothing. They all separated to go off to bed, and she changed into nightclothes before climbing under her covers, reveling in the private rooms they’d all been given here; it relaxed her somewhat that she would not need to worry about hiding her sex each night going into the final task. 

* * *

Rigel woke quite suddenly before dawn. A humming energy infused her, though she knew not where it came from. Uneasily, she dressed as she might for a Task, making sure her two undershirts were on right. Looking down at her chest, she frowned; it was growing annoyingly large, and soon she might need another solution. But that was no matter now; she returned to dressing, and pulled on the running shoes that had been a gift to her after the amount of running she’d had to do in the earlier tasks. Finally she slung her potions bag over her shoulder, slipped on the crystal ring almost as an afterthought, and stepped out into the hallway. There was merit to these new shoes, she thought; it was easier to move quietly in them.

Further down the hall, a door opened, and out stepped Draco. He was dressed similarly to her. Seeing her, he grinned.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“So are _you_ ,” she snapped softly.

“I’m going,” said Draco. “You can’t stop me, Rigel.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m going, too.” She paused. “Should we wake Pansy?” she asked.

Draco snorted. “What, and have her call us ten kinds of idiot before dragging us somewhere we can’t go off from? I think not. Come on, night’s a-wasting.” He turned, and led the way down the corridor.

Together they snuck out of the castle, and when Draco made to aim for the gates Rigel shook her head, and instead took them to the Apparation point. A Galleon to the guard ensured his silence and permitted their passage, and Rigel grinned at Draco.

“Hold tight,” she said. He gripped her arms, and looked as if he would like to protest, but thankfully said nothing. Rigel closed her eyes, and, turning on her heel, asked her magic to take her to the Black City. When she opened them again, after she’d been quite squeezed, they were out in the desert before the city gates.

“When did you learn to do _that_?” asked Draco.

“Last summer,” said Rigel.

“Who taught you, then?”

“I have some friends in London,” said Rigel after a moment’s hesitation. “They’ve been teaching me free dueling, and one of them taught me to Apparate for that last summer.”

“Free dueling,” Draco muttered under his breath. “No wonder you keep trying to do illegal things at dueling club.”

“Sorry about that,” said Rigel with a grimace. She gestured at the city. “Shall we?”

They passed through the gates. 

* * *

The sun beat down on them as they explored the Black City. Looking around, Rigel saw that every inch of the glossy black stone that made up the city was covered in frightening carvings. The buildings seemed to have been carved from the same stone as the city, rising seamlessly from it. Her nose stung, and she wished she’d thought to bring some sort of sunblock potion. All her preparations, and here she was, defeated by the _sun_.

“Draco,” she said softly, “why me?”

“As opposed to Pansy, or your friend Granger, or even another champion?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that would be because any of them would’ve grumbled all the way here, and smacked me over the head when I actually tried to enter the city. I knew you’d come and keep quiet.”

“That’s because I’m the only one with insanity in my family,” Rigel grumbled, though really she wasn’t—after all, the Black family (and by extension the Malfoys) had much more insanity in it than the Potters—but of course Draco didn’t know that.

They went on, slowly meandering towards the city center.

“Riddle wasn’t wrong,” said Rigel, still quiet. “This place—it’s evil.” It itched at her, pressed against her magic. In her mind, Dom grumbled.

“I know,” said Draco, just as soft. Yet still they pressed on, until, with the sun high overhead, they reached the central plaza.

It was a glassy black expanse, seeming to absorb the light that struck it, and in its center was a tall black tower, rising smoothly from it. Rigel found she did not want to step on it; yet Draco had gone on already, and so step she did. Together they climbed the stairs to the top of the tower, where dark wooden doors—the only ones they’d seen in all the city—barred their way.

“I don’t think we should go in,” said Rigel. “My magic—it’s _humming_.”

“Oh, come on, Rigel,” said Draco. “We can’t come all this way just to turn back at the last second.” They could, of course. But Rigel gritted her teeth instead.

“Fine.”

He pushed open the door, and together they stepped into the temple.

“Wands out, d’you reckon?” he asked, and she glared at him. Her wand was already in her hand.

“If we get ourselves killed here, Pansy’ll never forgive us,” said Rigel instead of replying to the absurd question.

“True,” said Draco. His laugh was quickly consumed by the heavy air in the temple. At the other end was a black stone block, so dark it hurt to look at; Rigel could see no reflections anywhere on it.

That was when the yellow-green light which had hung, sourceless, about them rippled across the room. When their eyes cleared, ten men and women stood before the altar.

They were as tall as Hagrid and taller, and painfully beautiful—though it was a cold, cruel beauty, Rigel thought. In her head, Dom was silent.

“It has been so long,” said a woman in red. “And they are so small.”

Another, this one with red, claw-like fingernails, stretched out a hand. “Feel the life in them, Ylira. It is a flame. These two will be enough for us all.”

“This was _your_ idea,” muttered Rigel. She took a half-step sideways so she was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco. Her magic vibrated in her, a sensation just a little too close to resonance for her comfort.

“So,” said Draco. His voice was calm, though Rigel knew it was forced. “Who are you, anyway?”

“They speak.” That was one of the men. “And look at the little one. It will hit us with its spells.” The others laughed, and Rigel steeled herself against the terrible sound.

The tallest man smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. “Mortal magic cannot hurt us,” he said in a deep, booming voice. “We are the Ysandir. We are immortal. We come from the Old Times.”

“Then what use have you for us?” asked Draco. If Rigel had known him even slightly less well, she wouldn’t have caught the fear under his arrogance. She didn’t dare try to ground him; her own emotions were in turmoil, and she couldn’t have blocked them out with all the Occlumency in the world. He would have to manage on his own.

“We are hungry, of course,” said the red-clawed woman. “The desert-men have grown too careful. They have not let their young here for a year or more.”

“How silly,” purred a woman with snow-white hair. “He thinks his _government_ will hunt for them and destroy us. As if his precious _government_ wasn’t wholly occupied with silly politics—and after all, he’s no prince.”

“Be that as it may,” said the tallest one. He smiled coldly. “I am Ylon, chief of the Ysandir. I have fed on mortal lives since time immemorial. Let your _government_ send its wizards. Their souls will only make us stronger, and we will break the curse of fire upon this place.” At his words Rigel felt cold. They could see into Draco’s mind; that was the only way they could know his thoughts. If they could see into _his_ mind—well. She could only place her trust in Dom, and hope for the best.

“We need no Aurors,” said Draco. “We’ll leave on our own, thanks.”

“Listen to him,” said the clawed woman, mockingly. “What arrogance for a little boy!”

Neither she nor Draco reacted to the jab, though she felt power coiling in her.

That was when the crystal in her ring flashed, and the Ysandir shrank back. Rigel stared from her hand to the Ysandir and back again.

“So,” said Ylon. “You have a trinket, little one. Can you use it?”

“Ylanda,” said Ylira suddenly, before Rigel had a chance to answer. “I cannot see into this one’s mind. It is hiding something. Where did you get that ring?”

“I don’t know,” said Rigel flatly. “It was a gift.” She made a mistake, then—she focused on Ylira just slightly too much, and felt a spike of pain in her head. At that, she gave a soft cry and on instinct threw up her wand-hand, where the crystal ring sat. It flashed light across the room, and Ylanda fell back.

“Do try to keep your openings to a minimum, Rigel,” Draco snapped. He was building up a spell, Rigel saw, though she wasn’t yet sure what it was. She swiftly raised a shield herself—without Draco by her side she would have used the Depasco shield, but with him so near she didn’t dare.

“It’s not like I planned on _that_ one,” she retorted. Before they could go on, however, Ylanda recovered herself and began to laugh.

“What a jest!” she said. “What a jest indeed. Young man—see your companion for what she really is!”

“She?” said Draco. His tone carried nothing but bafflement, but Rigel—well. Rigel was cold with fear. Before she could raise her hand again, or do anything to defend herself, a combined strike from Ylanda and Ylon broke through her shield and crashed into her. When pain had blazed briefly in her, she found she was as she had been, with a rather substantial difference. Her clothes were gone. All she had left were her shoes (and socks) and potions bag, and the belt she’d put her knife on.

The Ysandir all laughed then. “A girl—a _halfblood_ girl! His boy companion was a halfblood girl!”

“And yet she hopes to escape us,” said Ylira, scorn dripping from each word. “A jest indeed, Ylanda.”

Harry swore, and gave up covering herself to hold up her ring, letting its light blaze freely. “Sure,” she said. “I’m a halfblood girl. It hasn’t stopped me yet, and I don’t expect it to anytime soon.” She glanced cautiously at Draco, who was staring at her. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off with a curt shake of his head.

“Later, Potter,” he said, and handed her his outer robe. She nodded, pulled it swiftly on, and turned her attention back to the Ysandir.

“Separate them,” said Ylon, and Harry grabbed for Draco’s hand, no longer thinking of his empathy. After a fraction of a second his hand closed around hers, a near-crushing grip. Magic hung thickly in the air around them.

“Depasco shield,” said Draco sharply. “Cast it!” She did so without question. Draco brought up his wand, and took control of the spell from her. She glanced nervously at him; his core couldn’t support the spell for long, she knew, whereas she could hold it far longer. That was when she realized that there was more to their handholding than simply solidarity—somehow, they’d bridged their cores together, and Draco was drawing on her power.

“You dare defy us?” cried Ylon. “Let us see how that lasts, mortals!”

Pain shot through their hands then, but they only clung all the more tightly. Harry’s bones creaked under Draco’s grip.

The shield ate every spell that landed upon it, and when two of the Ysandir threw themselves upon it they, too, were consumed, vanishing with a terrible shriek.

“So you aren’t true immortals,” said Harry. “You can be killed.”

“How long do you think she will last?” Ylira asked Draco, not even looking at Harry. “A moment more? Less? She is a halfblood. She is weak. What can she do but fail, and leave you behind, undeserving deceiver that she is?”

It was all Harry’s doubts, put into terrible words, and she narrowed her eyes through the shield.

“You say that,” she said, “but I know you cannot mean it. Not if you truly looked into my mind.” She cast her attention over the spell; Draco had it under control. She left him to it, and raised her wand to cast the Scourging Curse; it hit Ylira, but though she growled in what might have been pain, she was left unmarked. Of course it hadn’t worked, Harry thought bitterly; Ylira was, after all, _immortal_ , or close to it. She laughed cruelly.

“Weak, as I thought,” she scoffed. Harry narrowed her eyes: the Ysandir would be immune to most physical spells, if she was right. And most of her repertoire _was_ physical, designed for human opponents. So it was that she was left only with a spell she’d never so much as tried before. 

“Avada Kedavra,” she said softly, and a jet of green light struck Ylira square on. She fell back and vanished.

Harry hadn’t known that using the Killing Curse would be so easy. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because three of the Ysandir were casting yet another spell, and she was so tired; her head ached already.

“Take over the shield,” said Draco, sharply, and Harry wordlessly complied. Draco in turn narrowed his eyes at the trio, and cast a nonverbal spell that shot a jet of black light into the heart of the trio; all three screamed and vanished in a blaze. Harry stared. She hadn’t known that Draco knew such high-level Dark spells. It was that display which emboldened her for what she asked next.

“Do you know fiendfyre?” she asked. “I know the counterspell, but—”

“Yes,” said Draco, and he cast it through the shield—it blazed across the room, eating up the screaming Ysandir as it went, before blinking out as quickly as it had come. Draco and Harry stared. Fiendfyre simply wasn’t supposed to _do_ that—it was supposed to burn unfettered, until it was stopped by magic. Here it had vanished as if it had never been, and Harry knew once more that they were dealing with something utterly beyond them.

Only two remained, of the many there had been: Ylon and Ylanda. They grasped hands, a terrible mirror of Harry and Draco, and Ylon pointed to their shield.

“ _Ak-hoft!_ ” he cried, and the shield vanished; just as well, really, if they didn’t want it to consume all their reserves.

“The others were weak,” said Ylon. “Greedy. Impatient. Foolish. We are not.”

“We are the First,” said Ylanda. “We have been here since time immemorial, and here we shall remain.”

“The first _what_?” asked Draco. Harry wiped her brow with Draco’s borrowed sleeve.

“Gods,” said Ylanda, “and children of gods. We have seen empires rise and fall. We have seen fertile land turn all to dust.”

“Gods,” said Harry. “Sure. Like _those_ exist.”

“How curious,” said Ylanda, sounding halfway sincere. “You don’t believe in gods, yet—how do you think you’ve done all this? Surely you know no ordinary mortal could have done it.”

“You can’t be gods anyway,” said Draco, “even if they do exist. Gods don’t die. You do.”

“Even immortals die when they weaken, boy,” said Ylon. “Ylanda and I are strong. We will not weaken. We will not die.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Draco scornfully.

“You’re old, you say,” said Harry. “I believe you, you know. But all that means is that your time—it’s come and gone. It’s time for you to leave.”

Ylon and Ylanda did not answer. Instead they began to chant in a language that tore at Harry, grating relentlessly at her, and Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Can you keep them occupied, and let me at your magic? I have a spell—I think—but it’ll take time. And power. A _lot_ of power.”

“I’ll try to stick to precision work, then,” said Harry. There was no point in saying anything else.

Draco closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, and began a soft, rumbling chant. Pain ran through Harry’s body, but she paid it no mind. Instead she watched the Ysandir.

She held up her ring, and the magic they cast broke over it. After that she left them no time; she began to cast spells. Hastily, Ylon summoned a sword, and Harry grinned. She knew all sorts of magic, of course; she was _good_ at magic, too. But this was what she’d poured herself into, all those summers in the Lower Alleys. She left the arcane Dark magic to Draco.

Ylon parried her spells, but she realized he didn’t know what she was casting; he parried them all, and she was casting wordlessly, and so he didn’t know what she was trying to hit them with. Her grin sharpened. He was immortal—maybe—but he was no duelist.

With Draco holding her hand, she had much less maneuverability, but that was all right; she’d learned from the goblin in the tournament that she didn’t want to get into his sword’s range anyway. She cast too quickly for him to advance on her, but just slowly enough to let him parry them all—she couldn’t let him actually be hit with one. And all the while, behind her, Draco built their spell. Finally her murmured to her.

“Break them apart,” he said, and she nodded, and slashed down with her wand twice. Her first spell struck Ylon’s sword, as she’d expected it to, and the blade shattered. Her second spell lashed down upon their hands, forcing them to release each other and dispelling their magic. They cried out in rage.

That was when Draco poured all their combined magic into his spell, and violet fire—brighter, hotter than anything Harry had ever seen—flared around the Ysandir. They gave a terrible, bloodcurdling scream and vanished. Harry’s knees buckled, and she found that she couldn’t stop herself from falling to the floor, darkness washing over her. 

* * *

When they woke, they did not speak. Every muscle in Harry’s body rebelled, and she bit her lip to contain a groan. A single scorch mark was upon the floor, all that remained to Ylon and Ylanda. She glanced at Draco, but he wasn’t looking at her. Silently they descended the tower and stumbled to the city gates, where they stopped, gazing blearily out over the desert. The sun had set while they’d lain in the tower.

“We’ll never make it back,” said Harry. Her core was listless and cool, and she doubted if Draco was any better. She didn’t have enough magic left to apparate, unless—

“I know that,” said Draco. She couldn’t read his emotion from his voice.

“Let me meditate a moment,” said Harry, and she sat against the wall before Draco could say anything in protest. She sank into her mindscape, and winced at what she saw. There was a smoldering scar down her mountain, and Dom was glaring at her.

“What,” he said, “ _the hell_ was that?”

“I thought you wanted me to do great deeds,” said Harry wearily. “Be great. You know. All that.”

“I wouldn’t have recommended you take on the _Ysandir_ as your first immortal fight,” Dom snapped. He sighed. “You’re here for the magic, I expect,” he said. “You know I can’t protect you if I don’t have it, right?” Harry sighed in response.

“We need to get away from here,” she said. “And Draco knows who I am, anyway. I haven’t anything to hide.”

“All right,” said Dom, though he clearly wasn’t happy about it, and he handed back her last scraps of magic. She looked at it dubiously, then sighed. It was all she had, so it would have to do. She thanked Dom, and rose out of her mindscape.

Draco was drowsing against the wall of the city when she opened her eyes, and she shook his shoulder. He blinked, and looked up at her.

“Rigel?” he said, before a quite different look came over him, and Harry couldn’t hide her flinch.

“I have a little magic back,” she said. “Not enough to take us back to Persopolis, but there’s an oasis not too far from here, and I think I’ve got just enough to take us there.”

“All right,” said Draco. He sounded as weary as she felt. She was tired, in more than one way, and had so little magic, and so instead of grabbing his hand she wrapped her arms around him and Disapparated.

They reappeared by the oasis, and she released him at once.

“Sorry,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t want to risk splinching you. Or me.”

They sat on the grass together, under the stars, and it was only after several minutes that either spoke again.

“I wasn’t wrong, was I,” said Draco. “You’re Harriett Potter.”

“Yes.”

“Then would I be right to guess that the Harry Potter in America is the _real_ Rigel Black?” At that, Harry shrugged.

“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” she said slowly. “I’m the only one of us two who’s ever gone by Rigel. He goes by Archie, when he’s being himself. But yes, the Harry Potter in America is the real Arcturus Rigel Black.”

Draco snorted. “You know what I meant.” He paused. “Then—you wanted to come to Hogwarts. Why?” There was much left unsaid, and Harry sighed.

“First—remember I was _ten_ when I came up with this plan,” she said. “I hadn’t even turned eleven; it was the summer before me and Archie were set to go off to school. I wanted to go to Hogwarts so I could study under Severus Snape.”

Draco, predictably, snorted again. “Of course you did,” he said. “How very _you_. How did you convince… Archie… to take your place?”

“I didn’t have to,” said Harry. “He didn’t want to go to Hogwarts; the healing program at Hogwarts is, quite frankly, disgraceful. He wanted to go to AIM so he could graduate with a Healing certificate at seventeen.”

“All right,” said Draco, frowning now. “I… I understand why you did it, I suppose, though I hope if you were put in a similar position now you would make a slightly more sensible decision, seeing as you _aren’t_ ten anymore. But how did you manage to pull off your… look? I’m assuming that you and _Archie_ don’t naturally look like identical twin boys.”

“Hardly,” said Harry. She sighed. “I can’t say we look exactly like identical _boys_ anymore, anyway,” she muttered, glancing down at her chest. Under Draco’s outer robe it was all-too-obvious what she was. Before Draco could interrupt, she gathered herself and went on. “In the first year, we really did look quite similar,” she said. “We didn’t do anything to change our appearances, except for cutting off our hair and both wearing colored contact lenses. After that we realized that it was too risky, having us look different; so we found an old spell that would let us blend two hairs together, and I discovered that if you brew Polyjuice potion with amber sitting in it, it’ll last for months or years even, depending on how much you’ve used.”

“So your blended appearance—why not pretend to be a boy completely, then? Is Archie pretending to be a girl?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t think it would be good for me, to suppress the… nature… of certain organs for that long. And no, Archie isn’t pretending to be a girl—they don’t know the Book of Gold very well after all, over in America. And you forget—I still spend my summers at home, and so I have to look enough like a girl that no one questions me there. Enough like a boy that no one questions me at school.” She closed her eyes then. “They couldn’t have caught Archie out with that clothes trick,” she said glumly.

“Why do you say that?”

“You know the story about his passive metamorphing, I suppose,” said Harry.

“As if that’s a thing anyone’d ever heard of,” said Draco, and Harry laughed softly.

“It isn’t,” she said. “A thing, I mean, at least as far as I know. He’s just a metamorphmagus; it’s… good I suppose, that he’s got it. Even with the potion our appearances started to diverge as we got older, and he can morph himself into looking like me, no matter what.”

Again they were silent for a time, resting in the desert, away from everything that mattered. Finally Harry gathered her nerves, and asked the question that had been weighing on her ever since they’d woken in the temple.

“What are you going to do about me?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Draco, and she glared at him.

“I’m committing _blood identity theft_ ,” she snapped. “I’ve been committing it since I was eleven, on the very first day we met. What are you going to do about that?”

“Nothing at all,” said Draco. “Not a damn thing. As far as I’m concerned you earned the right to be at Hogwarts a long time ago.” He was stiff, she saw as she looked at him, and she looked away, running a hand through her hair.

“I don’t know if I really want to ask what you’d have said if you’d found out before today,” she murmured, and she heard him sigh.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he said. “I mean—you saved my life back in first year. You’ve been doing public services for the school since day one, practically. But after today—that’s what matters, isn’t it? I’d probably have been more upset, at least. It’s a bit hard to be upset at you when I’m sure neither of us could have taken the Ysandir on our own, though.”

“Speaking of the Ysandir,” said Harry, glad to turn the conversation away from her deception, “isn’t it—odd—that you and I could destroy ancient immortals? We aren’t so very old, nor so very powerful.” Draco shifted next to her.

“I was actually going to ask you about that,” he said slowly. “You see, the spells I cast at them—the ones that worked, at least—they were all from the Malfoy library. I can’t usually cast them, at least not all in a row. You’re Lord-level, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Harry. There was no point in denying it, now that it was obviously true.

“There was… something else, too,” said Draco. “When I was casting that final spell—there’s a call in it, you know. _Goddess, Great Mother, Dark Lady—open the Way for us_. I never put much thought into it before—it’s an ancient spell, and I assumed it was some superstitious nonsense from ages past that no one had known how to remove without damaging the rest of the spell. But when I called on it—did something hurt you then?”

“Yes,” said Harry again. “Like there was something my body wasn’t quite built to handle.” Draco let out a shaky breath.

“Oh, good,” he murmured. “It wasn’t just me. I heard—a _voice_ isn’t quite right. It was deeper than that; I felt it in my bones, and I put my trust in the spell, and there was power there that wasn’t yours and wasn’t mine. It felt—old. Older than even the Ysandir.”

“The Ysandir,” said Harry. “They mentioned something about me having help to pull off this deception. They implied I had, I don’t know, _divine_ aid, but there aren’t any gods, are there? And if there were—wouldn’t I know if I was, I don’t know, in the hand of this Goddess?”

“There are more references to gods than any self-respecting modern family would admit to in old magic books,” said Draco. “The spell I used back there isn’t the only one like that.”

Harry sighed and lay down, staring up at the starry sky. “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” she said.

“Hmm,” said Draco, lying down next to her. “What were you casting at them, by the way?”

“Trip jinxes,” said Harry, “and color-change spells, and a Bat-Bogey Hex or three.” Next to her Draco choked.

“I’m sorry, _what_? You were fighting immortal maybe-gods with _trip jinxes_?”

“They couldn’t tell what I was casting,” she said. “So all I had to do was cast just slowly enough that they could block them all, but not so slowly it was unbelievable. You needed as much power as I could leave you, so I used low-power spells. With all that—they couldn’t risk me hitting them, you see, not after I hit and killed one of them with the Killing Curse.”

They were quiet for a time, Draco occasionally shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

“Who else knows, anyway?” he finally asked.

“Archie, of course,” said Harry. “Besides that, there’s Remus, and Leo Hurst.”

“Isn’t that the Aldermaster’s son?” asked Draco, and Harry smiled.

“Among other things,” she said. “Remus taught me standard dueling; Leo taught me to free duel. They watched the third task on the mirrors in Diagon Alley, and they _both_ recognized my fighting style. Leo confronted me afterwards.”

“I remember that,” said Draco. “Granger came to you, after that task, and when you’d gone and come back hours later you looked like you’d seen a ghost.” Harry grimaced.

“That… wasn’t fun,” she said, “that’s all I’ll say. But they both don’t plan to say a word. I doubt Remus will want to talk about it, but if you want to meet Leo I can introduce the two of you this summer.”

“So,” said Draco, “how the hell did Riddle get you into the Tournament, anyway?” He paused before choking on a laugh. “Merlin,” he said, “he won’t be happy when your secret comes out.”

“It won’t,” said Harry dully. “It can’t. I wish—I wish I could tell him, at the end of this thrice-bedamned Tournament, but I can’t. Not if I want to stay free and at Hogwarts.”

“It’ll come out eventually,” said Draco. “These things always do—even if you don’t reveal yourself, you’ll have to reveal at some point that the Rigel Black at Hogwarts now isn’t the real Archie Black, since I imagine you don’t want to stay switched forever, and I doubt if you’d be able to convincingly switch back.”

“That’s something of the plan,” said Harry. “When we’re grown, Archie reveals himself for who he really is, and I reveal that I’ve been living in an apartment in Diagon Alley for the past seven years, doing a correspondence school, and Rigel Black disappears entirely. Turns out he was a halfblood nobody from the continent.”

“I hope that works out for you,” said Draco, shaking his head. “Still, that’s a halfblood reveal. I hope I’m around when Riddle learns his precious pureblood champion is a halfblood, though, his face will be a study in horror.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so calm about me upsetting your whole worldview,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Draco, “I admit I may still be in shock, just a little. Anyway I’m too tired to be upset, and besides that—this explains so much about you, you know.”

“You should know,” said Harry, “every time you’ve seen me and Archie together—we’ve been ourselves.”

“Like at—oh,” said Draco with a wince. “Merlin, I’ve been an ass, haven’t I.”

Harry nodded silently. “I don’t hold it against you,” she said.

“Can we tell Pansy?” asked Draco finally. “I don’t think she’d—mind.”

“That makes her an accomplice,” said Harry. “Half the reason I never tell anyone is for my own sake, but the other half is for the fact that telling someone makes them complicit if they don’t turn me in.”

“Please, Rye,” said Draco. “Harry. I think—” He swallowed audibly. “Well. I think I might want to talk about this later, and I don’t know if I’ll want to talk to _you_.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Harry finally. “We should get some sleep. I think I’ll have enough magic back by the morning that I’ll be able to get us back to Persopolis.”

“All right,” said Draco, and together they lay on the grass by the oasis, gazing up at the sky. In the morning there would be Lord Riddle to face, and consequences, and other general annoyances, but for now—for now they were tired and sore and there was nothing for them to do but go to sleep, and sort it out in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know: the first _Song of the Lioness_ book is only about 50k, which means only 50k of Jon not knowing Alanna's secret for us to suffer through.  
> Did you know: the Rigel Black Chronicles are almost 1.3 _million_ words and counting, and literally no one knows yet, at least as far as Rigel knows. So I started writing this to soothe the yearning in my soul.
> 
> (Are the Ysandir related to Dementors? Whot knows. Not me, that's for sure.)


End file.
